


In the Dark

by wcdarling



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Boston, Classical Music, Gen, Music, Musicians, Piano, Queen of the Damned, Vampire Chronicles, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:51:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wcdarling/pseuds/wcdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mortal woman reveals a secret she has kept for many a year and we get a glimpse of a special vampire whose history has, except for the details of this story, been lost to us. This story builds up slowly but hopefully manages to suck you in. At least it worked on people when I first posted it back in 2001.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Transfixed

**Author's Note:**

> Here's something a little different. It dates way back to 2001 and frankly like a lot of my writing from back then, I find it a bit embarrassing and naive. Does the work of classical music even work remotely close to like this? And this writing style? This is SO not me… not any more! But hey! I’m trying to archive my stuff, so why not share? 
> 
> Spoilers: Big spoiler for QotD, although this story only barely hinges on any VC canon.
> 
> Characters: All originals.
> 
> Rating: PG.
> 
> Disclaimer: Although this is inspired by the Vampire Chronicles, all characters and situations are MINE. But whatever... You want to steal them (why, I don't know), feel free.

**Excerpted from  
_Classical Story Monthly_  
May 2001**

_EDITORS NOTE:_ On June 27, 2000, world-renowned classical pianist Vera Gardner lost her battle with ovarian cancer. She was 36 years old. The disease was diagnosed at an advanced stage and overtook her quickly. According to her parents, William and Barbara Gardner, Vera's life would have ended sooner had it not been for one thing: Her determination to complete the autobiographical essay which is printed here in its entirety. Despite the pain, the medication, and the small amount of time left to her, she insisted that she had a story that needed to be told. Before her death, she gave as her dying wish that her parents should submit the essay for publication. They did just that and Classical Story Monthly is pleased and honored to share her essay with the world. It is a story that she was adamant about concealing in life, but one which she willed to be shared after her death.

**In the Dark  
by Vera Gardner**

As I write out these words, beginning this essay, I am at my parents' home just outside of Boston. It's late afternoon and I can hear the birds in the pine trees outside my window as I sit propped up in bed. It's a beautiful spring day but I can't be outside to enjoy it. Between the pain and the drugs given me to conceal that pain, I find it difficult to do much walking. It's even more difficult to find a comfortable place to rest, but many hours in my bed have taught me how to arrange the pillows and blankets just so, how to arrange my body so that the pain is not so sharp and so I might believe, if only for a moment, that I am simply spending a lazy afternoon indoors.

My mother has told me to save my strength, but I know I have a greater purpose and that it is to share a tale I have never shared before, at least not with the outside world. My parents know it, or at least they know part of it. The rest of the world either pretends to know or pretends not to want to know, even though all along there has always been an gaping hole at the center of my life, a secret I would not reveal.

This mystery was most peculiar, for in my profession it is unheard of.

Look at the program for any professional classical concert with a solo artist, be it a violinist, a pianist, a cellist, or any other sort of player, and there will be a biography, along with the requisite black and white publicity photo. There will be glowing words about the concerts the musician has given throughout the world, the guest appearances, the special affinity they have for the program of the evening, their latest CD release, and of course, there will be information on their education. They will have been tutored in music from a young age and they will have attended the great music schools. Above all, they will have studied under famous teachers, often under well-known musicians.

My biography was always different. Under education, my schools were listed but not my primary teacher, not the one who trained me. No teacher is indicated. There is no name, no reference. In the early years, people would ask me about it, but soon they learned they would simply have to accept the enigma.

Until now I have never given an explanation beyond saying that I did not wish such information to be printed. The truth is, I wanted to respect and protect my teacher's privacy. Now, however, my teacher has been dead for sixteen years and I myself am about to die. The doctors have given me some chance of living but I know I will not; they're only trying to fill my head with pretty lies before they fill my veins with enough morphine that I won't know what's happening. I will live only long enough to tell this story, and then my strength will be at an end.

So let me begin.

* * *

My first visual memory is of a piano -- not an actual piano, but a picture of one. There was a book at the library, a children's book, with a drawing of a piano in it. My mother brought it home for me when I was two or three years old. It was a book about musical instruments. It was probably intended for older children but even at that age, my mother knew what I liked.

Classical music had always made me happy. According to my mother, when I was a baby and would cry, all she'd need to do was turn on the classical music station and I would be lulled into smiles or silence, drifting off into happy sleep. My mother and father were far from being the sort of people you'd think would enjoy such music -- we were forever scraping the bottom of the middle class -- but in fact they appreciated it very much, and not only because it kept me quiet. It was something unusual, something beautiful. Besides my very life, giving me this music was their greatest gift to me.

I remember that book so clearly. My mother had, upon arriving home from the library with it, explained to me what it was about. Sitting on the braided rug in the tiny apartment we lived in, she'd spread the book out before me and pointed to each instrument, reading the names out loud. My mother hadn't seen some of the instruments in real life, but she wanted me to know what they were called anyway.

I loved the picture of the piano. I knew what pianos were; they made the loveliest sounds in the world. I was excited about that picture the way little boys are excited by pictures of dump trucks, the way little girls are excited by pictures of ponies. Soon all I would talk about was pianos. I drew pictures of pianos, although looking at yellowing pieces of paper my mother kept in a box, you might not be able to identify the subject except for the title, written in my mother's rounded cursive handwriting: "Vera's Piano," "Piano by Vera," and "Vera's Favorite Instrument."

By the time I got a plastic play piano, it was my fourth birthday and I still had not seen an _actual_ piano. Still, the new toy made me happy, even though the sounds it made were more like high-pitched janglings than anything produced by a piano. I'd sit at my instrument tinkling away, singing out the songs I'd made up, asking my parents to listen to me as I gave my concerts.

Meanwhile my mother and father had brought more piano music home for me. Over at Goodwill they'd found a little turntable and speakers for only a few dollars. They brought it home along with a dozen or so records, all classical albums and all of them featuring the piano. At first my mother or father would have to put on the music for me, but soon I had mastered the technique and began to sit by the turntable, ready to turn over the record, repeat or switch albums as necessary. I listened so much that my mother started having to make special trips to the library to find records to take out on loan. There was always a stack of library albums next to the turntable, waiting to be listened to or returned.

To say I became mesmerized is putting it rather mildly. I was obsessed. My drawing skills had improved and I had begun to draw the kinds of things I saw on the record albums. I drew different pictures of grand pianos, of keyboards, of pianists in their tuxedos, leaning so dramatically over their instruments. Eventually I even began to draw pictures of composers, trying so hard to reproduce the likenesses I'd seen of Beethoven, Liszt, Mozart, Chopin. Of course they didn't really look at all like them but I was trying so hard because to me, those composers were my heroes. Most children had their Saturday morning cartoons and televisions heroes; I had Brahms, Schumann, Bach, and the whole pantheon of artists whom I loved just as dearly and devotedly.

I was almost five, a few months from kindergarten, when I finally told my parents I wanted a piano. Looking back on it now, I realize it was a totally unreasonable request. My parents were in no situation to afford such a thing. We lived in a small third-floor walk-up in a slightly run-down neighborhood. My mother and father both worked all day, but despite this, there was no money for a car, let alone a piano or even installment payments on a piano.

As a child, however, you don't understand these things. I know I didn't understand. And so I asked over and over: _Please, can I have a piano?_

My parents never actually said no to me. Instead, they told me that I might have one "someday" and that "someday" I might be able to take lessons and learn to play. I believed them at first and kept on listening to my albums. I grew familiar with the schedule of the classical music station and would tune in for the special piano programs. Finally, however, my childish impatience got the better of me, and I began to ask again: _Please, can I have a piano?_

It broke my mother's heart, I know it did. Laying here in this bed, feeling hungry but grateful that she is making dinner for me downstairs, I feel guilty to this day for the way I tormented them daily with this request. I probably caused arguments between them. I probably made them feel guilty. My request was probably even the reason my father went from working one job to working two jobs, plus working additional hours over the weekends.

It was on one of these weekends, while my father was working, that my mother and I were out running some errands and doing some shopping in Boston. My mother was a maid and she had a client who had needed special services late on Saturday afternoon. I'd gone along with her, sitting in a corner singing my piano songs. It was nearly Christmas and afterward the client had been kind enough to give my mother a special bonus along with a gift certificate for a department store.

After shopping my mother took me to a hole-in-the-wall cafe in the Theater District. I know now that we were probably surrounded by actors, musicians, theater goers and artists. There was piano music playing in the cafe. I remember becoming very excited by it. My mother loves to tell the story of how on that night, I walked up to the counter and asked exactly which Mozart concerto it was. They stared at me blank-faced. They didn't know.

Finished with our dinner and carrying a few bags from the department store, we left the cafe and headed towards the subway. Walking down Boylston Street past Boston Common, we were making our way through the theater crowds when suddenly my mother stopped in her tracks. Up on the left was a series of great glass windows, lit up to entice the passing throng. It was the showroom of M. Steinert and Sons and there, in all their glory, were the pianos I had begged so desperately to see.

For a moment I just stood staring. Then I cocked my head up towards my mother. "Can we please go in there, Mommy?" I tugged on her hand even though of course it wasn't necessary.

We entered the venerable showroom. Open since 1896, it had the restrained air of a church, although at the time I had never been in a one. My parents had never been ones for religion. Perhaps if they had been, I would have at least seen a piano or an organ before. As it was, I followed my mother as she stepped through the room. I imagine that she was trying to be inconspicuous, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She was only there for me, not for herself. To her, it was probably like sitting inside a five star restaurant without your wallet; at any moment, she expected to be told to leave.

I didn't know any of this. All I knew was that the pianos were beautiful, polished woods in black and brown. At that age they fell at my eye level and it seemed they were like the big animals at the zoo, only better because I knew you could touch them. People _had_ to touch them. How else would they make music? I slipped away from my mother and touched the side of one of them. I ran my hand over and up above the keyboard.

I was about to test out the keys when suddenly my mother had me by the shoulders. "No, Vera, don't touch!" She told me that I was only to look, that the pianos were too expensive to be toys. She took me by the hand and headed off across the showroom.

Before she made it to a safe position, however, a salesman intercepted her. Was she shopping for a piano? Did she have a particular model in mind? Did she know the showroom was holding a special promotion? My mother was mortified. All her plans to let us remain invisible had been for nought. She smiled and answered the salesman's questions. No, she wasn't really shopping, just looking. No, she didn't know much about pianos. The special sounded good, she told him, but she really wasn't in position to buy me any such thing. Really she was there for her daughter.

The salesman finally realized he didn't have a customer and was about to make a polite withdrawal when he and my mother, both of whom had lost track of me, found me sitting on bench in front of one of the pianos. Fingers extended, I was slowly, one by one, testing out the keys. I wasn't pounding the keys with my fists or hitting the keys sharply. I was simply sitting there testing out the notes and listening.

I remember that the sound was so much more than I had expected, so much louder, so much deeper, so much more alive than my record albums. I knew instantly that the plastic pianos I'd played with were worthless pieces of garbage. I led my fingers up the keyboard in a one-fingered chromatic scale. Then I tested just the white keys and then all the black keys, the flats and sharps. And then I did something my mother and I will never forget. Remembering what I'd learned on my plastic pianos, I played a song. It was a song I had made up myself. It wasn't long and it was only one finger, but it was a song, a little melody.

My mother and the salesman stood and watched this, my first concert, and then my mother scooped me up and gave me a hug and a kiss. I knew then that I'd made her happy and that she wasn't angry that I had broken her rule and touched the pianos. The salesman thanked us and soon my mother and I left for home, where we would make some dinner for my father, who'd be coming home from his job. I stole one last look at a grand as I left, saving it for my dreams.


	2. The Showroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for notes.

From that moment on, I wanted more than a piano. I wanted lessons. I wanted to know how to play. My parents heard my pleas but there was no money -- at least that was their line at first. Every time I asked, they'd say, "We're sorry, honey, if we could afford it, we would send you but we can't."

After a few weeks my mother finally decided that she would at least look into lessons and see how much they cost. She really had no idea. So she went around a tried to find a teacher for her by-then six-year-old daughter. Most were far too expensive. The few that were not didn't matter because I couldn't go to them; there were no evening lessons and no weekend classes, at least not that my mother could find. Maybe if she had known where to find teachers, my mother would have found something, but she didn't know and so it was decided. No lessons. My mother and father had to work and unless I could go at night or on the weekend, they couldn't bring me to my lessons.

My parents tried to do other things for me. They brought me more records and gradually they began to find concerts they could bring me to. We went to local churches and colleges to hear recitals. My mother took out children's biographies of the classical composers. I remember her telling me the story of Beethoven; I could never believe he wrote so much music without being able to hear it. My parents were good to me, so good, and yet my longing had grown unbearable for all of us. My joy, my passion, was being thwarted!

Six months after our first visit to M. Steinert and Sons, my mother and I were making our bi-weekly visit to the store when my life changed. Had we come by on a different evening or even a few minutes earlier or later, the moment might not have happened. I would have gone on pestering my parents for years. I would have eventually found lessons through a church or the YMCA or a local piano teacher with a rate my parents could afford. I don't know if I ever would have become a concert pianist. I doubt it actually. But that moment was my moment, given to me by fate, and I treasure it more than almost any other moment in my life.

I was sitting at one of the pianos, just as I did every two weeks. My mother was still a bit embarrassed to be going in there with me, even though the one salesman had told her it was fine. He liked me and in some ways I think he enjoyed talking to my mother because unlike most of the other visitors to the store, both the lookers and the buyers, she was unpretentious. He and my mother would stand and talk about music; he would recommend music and once he even loaned her some of his own records. At any rate, I was sitting at the piano and they were talking when suddenly they stopped what they were saying and stared at me.

What was I doing? Why, I was playing! I was playing like I always played, but that night suddenly I was better. I had been pecking out little tunes on every visit. A few times the salesman had helped me. Other people had helped me, too. It sounds impossible to believe to me even now, but passing strangers had taught me tiny bits of Mozart, bars of Clementi, the sweet airs of Strauss. That night, however, I wasn't just playing a selection of a song; I was actually playing a song. It was Saint-Saëns, a song I had heard many times on record. I was only using two fingers, one on each hand, but I was managing to capture the tune and even playing it slow enough that it sounded the way it was supposed to.

My mother stared and then tears filled her eyes. How could she be such a terrible mother, so selfish? She needed to get me lessons! She would do anything!

I stopped playing and was about to get up and tell her it was all right when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and there, at the end of a long arm, stood my teacher.

His gray eyes twinkled as he smiled and lowered himself down on his haunches to look at me face-to-face.

"Hello," he said, still smiling. "You play beautifully."

I was taken quite off guard. "Really?" I gasped.

"Yes, really," he said slowly. He looked up at my mother. "I can give her lessons. Whenever you like. For free."

My mother was utterly stunned for a moment. She hadn't even asked and there this man was offering exactly what she and I had wanted so desperately. She glanced at the salesman. "Have you been telling people our problem?" she asked him. He nodded and she looked back at the man. "Oh."

My teacher rose and extended his hand to her. "I'm quite serious. I am fully qualified to offer lessons of the highest quality. I know of the difficulties you've been having finding a teacher but after seeing your little girl tonight, I feel I must help you."

My mother argued gently with him, telling him she didn't need charity, that she would find someone on her own. Surely his time was too valuable to waste giving free lessons. No, that wasn't so, he told her. He wanted to help me, to teach me in the manner I deserved. I had a talent that needed to be nurtured.

This entire conversation is something I don't quite remember myself. My mother has told me most of it, over and over, as the years have passed. At the time I only knew that my wish was going to come true. The man with the wavy dark hair was going to make it happen. He was my fairy godmother, or maybe it was better to say fairy godfather. I hoped beyond hope that my wait had come to an end.

Finally my mother came to me and, just as the man had done earlier, got down to my level to talk to me. "This man," she said, gesturing, "Mr. Franz Hoffman, is going to give you piano lessons."

Thus I gained my teacher.

Of course I must admit that my mother didn't topple over for Mr. Hoffman immediately. Coming from a background where nothing ever came on a silver platter and there was no such thing as a free lunch, she was naturally suspicious. She wondered about his background, his motives, and his qualifications. She wasn't going to hand over her little girl's dreams to just anyone.

Once the tall man had give my mother his business card and kissed her hand in farewell, she asked all the salesmen at M. Steinert and Sons what they knew about him. A wonderful man, they all told her. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, they said, and oh, yes, a gifted pianist. Was he famous? Oh, no, they explained -- he didn't perform in public. Didn't want the stress of a professional performance schedule, it seemed. He often came into the store just before closing and stayed late as they cleaned up the shop. Since he played better than any of the employees and had a perfect ear for pitch, they used him as their tester. No piano was ever out of tune in their shop, thanks to his acute ear.

My mother asked after his habits. Was he clean? Reliable? Did he ever appear drunk? Did they think he would be all right working with a young girl? On when he tested fine on all accounts did my mother finally relax and, finally, smile.

"You're a very lucky girl," she told me. "You know that, right? Things like this don't happen every day."

She needn't have told me. I already knew and besides that, everything that happened afterward told me more and more than something had changed -- something big. Things were going my way and my wishes were going to come true.


	3. First Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for notes.

Early childhood memories are often hazy. Images and smells and flashes of faces are all adults have left to them as the years go by. There are no continuous scenes and often, stories are garbled, one circumstance blending into another, all of it made worse by the fact that even at the time, everything was a mystery. Adults don't explain things to children and so children make up their own explanations. It's only afterward that the children grow and their minds begin to ask the inevitable question: What really happened?

My own memories are somewhat different. There are plenty of details I have forgotten or have been clouded in a haze. I don't remember much from my days at kindergarten or grade school, where I received above average grades even though I was not particularly interested in anything they had to teach me. I remember flashes of times spent with my grandparents, trips to the beaches in New Hampshire, digging tunnels in the great mounds of snow piled up by the plows as they cleared the winter streets of Boston. I suppose these are the typical sorts of memories.

Altogether separate from these memories, however, are the memories of my teacher. In my mind, I can reply certain scenes, conversations, images with perfect clarity, just like I'm watching a video or have stored photographs in my mind. I don't remember every single lesson, but I remember the sum details of what was said, what was learned. The memories stretch out like quilt spread out on a lawn in summer and whenever I like, I can lay on my stomach and examine each piece of patchwork, going from one to the other, everything coming together to form a seamless whole.

The first day of lessons was the second patch in this quilt, the first being the initial meeting at the showroom. My mother and I took the subway to a stop near the Common. It was after dark, perhaps around 8 p.m., when we emerged into the blast of December cold. Hugging our winter jackets and pulling our hats over our ears, we hurried over to the address Mr. Hoffman had given my mother over the phone.

My teacher had a home in Beacon Hill. These days, the neighborhood is among the most exclusive in the city and also the most photographed. With its stately brick townhouses and hilly, crooked streets, it doesn't look anything like part of an American city. More than anything, it looks like a part of London or a window left open on the nineteenth century. At the time of my first lesson, however, just at the start of the 1970s, the neighborhood wasn't a particularly desirable one. City planners were in the midst of tearing down a large swath of Downtown, sweeping north from the State House, knocking down all the old and replacing it with concrete and brick civic structures, inhumanly barren plazas. Beacon Hill was a relic and at the time, people were talking about bulldozing it as well. Fortunately it managed to survive and thrive, putting the modern ugliness to shame.

But as I was saying (and forgive me if my mind wanders, which it does more and more often), my teacher lived in Beacon Hill, and so my mother and I trudged up one of the narrow sidewalks of one of the steep cobblestone streets to reach the broader east-west street near the top of the hill. This street was lined with the larger houses, the ones with the private gardens out in front, gates of stone or iron, ivy running over the facades. Even then, in its run-down state, it was magnificent and, to the child I was then, walking through it was like taking a journey to another world.

The house was two stories of heavy stone, the first floor fronted with tall paned glass windows hung with heavy drapes, framing an interior filled with light and, we hoped as we approached the front door, warmth. The leafless bushes and evergreen shrubs were neatly trimmed, with a stone fountain frozen over in the area to the left, a sun dial standing in the nighttime shadows off to the right. My mother and I mounted the front steps. Standing before the Roman-style pediment, my mother took the brass knocker on the door and rapped it against the door.

My mother checked her wristwatch and smiled. "Right on time," she said to me, dropping her hand to straighten up my jacket and hat, to wipe off my face with her gloves. Little girls tend to get messy and she wanted me to look my best.

Just as my mother was straightening, the door opened and there, in his near-princely glory, stood Mr. Hoffman.

I still have not described him physically, so as I describe my first impressions, let this serve as the impression for all time, since his appearance never really changed.

Mr. Hoffman had a marvelously handsome, masculine face, something like that of a 1930s film star. Wonderfully pleasant and regular it was, the arched eyebrows and the strong, straight nose. There were two lines in his forehead and a tiny dimple in his chin. His eyes were light brown and edged with fine brown lashes. The frame around his face was lovely dark brown hair, filled with gentle, pampered waves and parted to the side. He was tall with a graceful figure, neither too thin nor too thick, with the strong and muscled hands of a pianist.

All these details I recall so well from looking at him over the years are ones I may have missed on that very first night. In that first appearance at the door, the light to the right of the door had his face half in shadow as he smiled and ushered us inside with a greeting. He closed the door and at once I felt the warmth of the house surround me. He took our coats and hats and offered us a seat so we could remove our boots. Every action was so thoughtful, instilling me with a sense of trust even though he had scarcely spoken.

Once we were finished with our boots, Mr. Hoffman led us to a sitting room that rivaled anything my mother or I had ever seen. The walls were covered in solid wood paneling and the decor was such that I felt, as a child, that I might not be permitted in its presence. Mr. Hoffman did not hold the room as a museum relic, however, and he promptly invited my mother to have a seat so he could take me to the music room to begin our lessons. A small table had been provisioned with all the trappings of tea, including an antique tea set and a plate of cookies. My mother shook my teacher's hand and sat herself down to read the book she had brought with her.

Mr. Hoffman took my hand in his as we walked down the hall towards the back of the house. His hands were always wondrously cool and smooth. The floorboards creaked as we walked along and I wondered how old the house was. I assumed it was very old and that Mr. Hoffman was very rich. He was giving me free lessons after all, and why would he do that unless he didn't need the money? I was only six years old, but I had a practical mind and already understood quite a bit of the operations of the adult world.

My teacher slid back an inset door and ushered me into the music room. At the center of the room was a grand piano more beautiful than any I had ever seen at M. Steinert and Sons. I asked Mr. Hoffman if he was really going to let me touch it, and he told me yes. I could hardly believe it. Imagine, there I was, finally getting lessons from a master pianist with a wonderful fancy house and all of it was for free!

Like every lesson, this first lesson began with a treat. Mr. Hoffman ushered me into a chair by the flickering warmth of the fireplace and gestured to a plate of cookies. I took a seat, thanked him and asked him if he would like any. He said no but took the seat opposite me and began to talk. He explained the way the lessons would work. Because I was so young and my hands were still so small, it would be difficult to teach me all the proper techniques, but he would begin to teach me everything there was to know about the piano and music. He would explain to me all the technical details as well as the finer points. He would teach me to read music. He would play piano for me himself and let me observe his technique and experience live performance. By the time were we were through all the basics, he told me, I would be big enough to start hands-on learning.

My cookies were long gone by the time he finished talking. While he had been speaking I had been taking in the details of the room, its dark molding and the heavy red drapes that masked all the windows except for one, which had been left half uncovered, giving a glimpse into what I assumed was the backyard beyond. I also turned my eyes to the piano and thought of what playing it would be like. I wouldn't been an showroom and I would be learning how to do it right. Soon I would be able to make the sounds I had always dreamed of.

That first lesson was a time of testing. Mr. Hoffman wanted to see what I knew. First he asked me questions about music, composers, instruments. Having spent so much time listening to records, and after all the books my mother and I had read together, I knew most of the answers, which seemed to make him happy. After the "verbal exam" my teacher sat down at the piano and gave me a listening test. He played bits of music and asked me to name the composer and the piece. Not all my guesses were on target, but quite a few of them were. I'm sure he played mostly famous pieces of music, things he was sure I would be familiar with, just so I would feel I knew something.

Finally came the real test. Adjusting the piano stool to my height, he told me to have a seat and play for him. I had played so often in the showroom but in that setting I felt a little shy. Still, a piano was a piano and I couldn't resist for long. I hopped up on the stool and did as he asked. I played. I was only playing with a few fingers -- my hands were still too small for much else -- but I managed to play the melodies for quite a few tunes my teacher asked for. Bach minuets, themes from piano concertos by Mozart, simplified versions of Chopin's nocturnes.

All along, as I played, Mr. Hoffman stood by the curve in the piano with his right hand on his chin, the other set on his hip. He was listening to me, judging my ear for music, for rhythm, trying to gauge what sort of teaching I would require. He didn't seem displeased at all, and in fact several times in between pieces I saw him smile. Still, by the time he told me to stop, I was still rather doubtful that he would be impressed by what I had done. After all, he was a great pianist and I was only a six-year-old girl who performed with two fingers and learned to play using a plastic toy piano and listening to records from the library and Goodwill.

Thus I was surprised when I stepped down from the stool and looked up to see my teacher looking down at me. He offered his hands and I put mine out for him to hold. He smiled at me and said the words with which he ended so many of his lessons with me over the years: "You are the perfect student."


	4. Without A Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for notes.

For the next five years, Mr. Hoffmann delivered on every promise and went even beyond that. His arrival into my life and the life of my family was so sudden that it seemed like a dream, but it was no dream. Instead, it was something so powerfully real but so intensely good it had the quality of certain photographs that seem as if they must have been touched up even though they are in their raw form; the images are simply so perfect, so intense in the way they capture life, that the human senses reject them as mere artifice.

My lessons proceeded just as Mr. Hoffmann outlined them to me during that first lesson. He opened up the world to me. Musical theory, history, reading music, listening sessions, and of course practice at the keyboard quickly made up for all the years of frustrating yearning. Playing the instrument came easily to me although, as Mr. Hoffmann had presumed, my hands were too small too allow me full command. Nevertheless, I learned as many of the proper techniques as I was able and was forever pushing the limits of my little girl hands. And when I could not play a song I wanted to, I was always told that one day I would be able to. Everything would come in time, Mr. Hoffmann told me.

How right he was. After two years of lessons, just about the time that my hands had grown enough that making proper spans was becoming easier at last, my parents and I moved to a new apartment. It was in a better neighborhood and located on the first floor. As soon as I told Mr. Hoffman, he offered my family a piano. Since we were on the first floor now and it would be easy for him to have a mover deliver it. My mother and father naturally rejected the offer, saying they couldn't accept such charity when Mr. Hoffmann was already giving me so much, but my teacher was insistent. He had several pianos and this was one he didn't use. He'd had it in storage so why not take it? He would have it delivered and even send someone to come service the baby grand so it always stayed in tune. Finally my parents agreed.

I played all the time. My parents made sure I took care of my homework for school and went outside in the fresh air, but after dark my life was nothing but music. Twice a week my mother would take me to Beacon Hill for my lessons. Eventually she settled into a pattern where she would bring me to Mr. Hoffman's house and go to work for a housekeeping client for two hours before returning to pick me up.

I don't know quite how to express this strongly enough, but the four hours I spent with my teacher every week were the most precious hours of my life. The intensity of the lessons was amazing, far beyond, I would say, any lesson I received in music school.

Mr. Hoffmann didn't just know the piano or just know music. My teacher was more than that. He had a passion for music that was contagious. I'd been born with the fever myself but still, being with him intensified my obsession because he made me aware of so much more. What was even more precious, however, was the fact that he fed my interest in a way that few teachers can. Many teachers, in my opinion, take things too slowly. Assuming their students will run into difficulties, they dumb down their lessons and work hard not to "overwhelm" their students. Not so with Mr. Hoffman. My mind was burning for knowledge and he gave it to me as fast as I could absorb it. When we were in the heat of a lesson, he didn't treat me like the young girl I was; he treated me as a person in need of an education.

For five years my life revolved around the music to such a degree that nothing in the outside world seemed to matter much. Nothing compared and nothing related. My life with Mr. Hoffman, the music I played, the special circumstances that had granted me such a privilege, all existed in another universe. Then, one day, the real world collided with that world. The collision only caused a slight dent at the time, but eventually the fissure grew.

What happened, you ask? Lying here still in my bed writing, so many years later, I remember it it with a keenness that astonishes me, especially given the drugs I have been given. The doctors haven't told me anything about the drugs but I have read the warnings and they talk about about memory loss, drowsiness, vomiting. I have been doing well lately, but still, I know eventually there will come a time when my mind and body will no longer be my own.

But be that as it may, I was about to describe the event that burst my bubble, so to speak. It happened when I was 11 years old, in sixth grade. My grade was going to be putting on a special concert and all the students were asked to either perform in groups or come and present their talents. My music classes had always bored me -- they were designed for babies, as far as I could see -- and I'd never played piano for any of my classmates, so I immediately jumped at the chance of performing. And I immediately went to Mr. Hoffmann.

Would he come to the show and let me introduce him? I had the best teacher in the world and I wanted to show him off. Would he come? I asked him at my earliest opportunity, a lesson about a week before the show. I remember sitting in the chair by the fireplace in the practice room, my plate of cookies uneaten as I spoke, and I remember being giddy with excitement, so sure Mr. Hoffmann would be jumping up and down with joy that I would be performing.

As it turns out, his reaction wasn't at all what I had anticipated. Quite simply, he told me that although he very much supported my desire to perform, he did not want it to be known that I was his teacher. He wanted to stay out of the limelight and did not want his name mentioned in public. He could not attend the show and have everyone see him. He would be flooded with students and questions. He valued his privacy. No, he couldn't do it, although he wanted to, he really did.

I was shocked but I didn't collapse into tears right away. No, instead I argued with him. OK, so he didn't want people to know his name or that he was my teacher? What if he came to the show and didn't tell anyone? I wouldn't say anything either. Couldn't he do that?

As it turns out, he couldn't. Why not? Timing, he told me. The show would be taking place during school hours, running from 1 to 2 p.m., and he simply couldn't attend. Not that day, not that time. Business matters. He hated to talk to me about "business" and never really told me what he did when he wasn't teaching me my lessons, but this time he made an exception. He'd be out of town that day. No, he simply couldn't come.

I was hopelessly devoted to my teacher and still, of course, a girl of only 11, and so I accepted his explanation with only a small amount of doubt. Still, it was enough to break the perfection that had been those first years. I learned for the first time that my teacher had his limits and couldn't always give me what I wanted. I also learned that for some reason, my teacher was afraid of being known. He wanted me to become a famous pianist, he always said, but he himself wanted to be unknown. I had a life to live, while he had only a life to give me.


	5. Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for notes.

I entered my teen years. While much stayed the same, certain things began to change.

My mother no longer took me to my lessons, but trusted me to take the subway there and back on my own. The lessons were still at night but there was no way around that. I asked my teacher if we could meet earlier now that I no longer relied on my mother, but he told me that he preferred to meet in the evening after dark. He was adamant on this point actually, that the lesson take place _after dark_ ; he'd even adjust the appointment time depending on the the time of year. Of course I always felt this was peculiar but many things about Mr. Hoffmann were peculiar and no matter what, I still saw him as a saint, the fulfiller of all my dreams, and so of course I did not dare argue. What was the point? I was getting what I wanted.

The lessons continued to be rigorous, in fact more rigorous than they had been. Instead of twice a week, I went to Mr. Hoffmann three times a week. In the winter, when the lessons could start earlier in the evening, I would stay longer than the usual two hours, stretching it out into three or four. More than once, as I grew into a high schooler, I remember catching the last train home. My parents were worried the first few times, but quickly they learned the correct response: Call Mr. Hoffmann and remind him of the time. Finally we agreed that I would leave no later than 11. It wasn't good for a young woman to be out walking so late at night and while my grades in school were still as good as always, but my parents were concerned. I needed sleep, they told me.

But back to the lessons themselves. I've already described them as "rigorous" but that adjective doesn't begin to do them justice. Uncompromising? Severe? The best hours I ever spent? Words fail me. I can say that his passion only grew with the years. The more I was able to play, the more I was able to assume the power of an adult pianist, the more he gave me -- more discipline, more exacting standards to abide by, more formidable pieces to play. He began to challenge me, playing a piece and then wondering if I could do better. We played duets and tried to top one another improvising on themes of Mozart or Bach or Chopin. It was fun. It was all such fun, even if it was difficult or maybe _because_ it was difficult. It was what I wanted to do. I wanted to become a great pianist and what Mr. Hoffmann was giving me was what I needed. It wasn't a bitter pill to swallow, the work I had to do; it was as sweet and strong as almond liqueur.

I wasn't entirely drunk on the pleasure, however. There was one peculiarity of Mr. Hoffmann that irked me in a way that his insistence on having lessons at night did not. Simply stated, he would not see me perform in public! After the disappointment of the school show, he'd encouraged me to go out and present my talents to the world. He'd made arrangements for me to give local concerts at community events and then local recitals and competitions. By the time I was 14, I was playing in statewide competitions and by high school I was in New England regional competitions. Mr. Hoffmann would pay for all the travel expenses and prepare me for the concerts. He'd give me pep talks and describe to me the world of the concert pianist, explain to me the psychology of performance, explain how the judges thought.

Still, despite all this support, Mr. Hoffmann would not attend my performances! I would always ask but he would always say no. At first he would make an excuse every time. Business. Bad time. Out of town. Too far away. Didn't want the publicity. I tried every means of persuasion, offered every option and work-around I could think of. Still, he would not give an inch. Eventually I would ask him but not expect a real answer. All I would expect was the usual: "I am very sorry, Vera, but you know I cannot attend."

In some ways the situation was difficult to accept. Despite my special upbringing in the world of music and the hours I spent at the piano, like any teenager I had my insecurities, my need to feel validated. My parents did their best to attend every one of my performances and this appeased me, of course it did, but for Mr. Hoffmann, my teacher, the man who had, in a way, given me life, to practically boycott any event where I would be playing in public? It broke my heart.

Which reminds me. Speaking of my heart, there was another reason I found myself, on occasion, feeling put out, neglected, disappointed. It was the same reason that I never let the bad overshadow the good -- and there was so much good. The reason was that I loved him. By the time I was a junior in high school he had known me ten years. Some people would expect that he would have been like a second father to me but he wasn't. I already had a father. Mr. Hoffmann was... more than that.

It pains me to have to make something clear at this point, but let me do so: My teacher never touched me. We were never intimate in any way whatsoever, except for the times when we would play duets side by side or he would instruct me on my posture or hand position. No, we were lovers of a different kind. I loved him not as a father, but as someone who was to be treasured, someone so selfless as to match the goodness of the God I had heard of but never believed in.

Mr. Hoffmann was a handsome man; I must have written this earlier somewhere, I'm sure. He reminded me of a 1930s movie star. And with his beautiful brown eyes and his pale pink lips, he would watch me with such a loving gaze at times, and I would catch that gaze. He would look into my eyes with such intensity and I did not look away. I stared straight back at him. There was no reason to be afraid. I knew he would not touch me, at least not yet. First, I had to become a great pianist. That was the goal. I was to grow and grow and grow and someday, so I hoped, I would be _enough_. And Mr. Hoffmann would be there for me.

It sounds unseemly, unhealthy even, when I describe it, I know. My parents, whom I'm asking to have this published, are probably going to be shocked speechless when they read this. Their daughter, their precious daughter, being eyed by the man they most trusted! But as I said at the start of this essay, that man is dead. And I'd like to also point out, just for emphasis, that Mr. Hoffmann wasn't the only one doing the eyeing. I'll write it again because it's so late and I know I'm coming closer and closer to the end with every breath and there's no reason not to say it anymore: I loved him.

Ah, but where was I? Oh, yes, Mr. Hoffmann and his phobias. Did I mention his phobias? No, I didn't. Well, that's what I finally concluded. I was 18 years old and finishing up high school when I took a psychology class and decided that there was a rational explanation for his refusal to attend my concert. He had a phobias. Perhaps he had multiple phobias, I concluded. Certainly he had agoraphobia or maybe a better term for it was anthrophobia. Or maybe sociophobia. I went to the library one day and dug through a whole list of terms looking for ones that fit. I'm trying to remember some of them now. I know I thought he had a fear of light. He didn't even have many lights in him home. I believe that's photophobia. There was another one that was more specific having to do with daylight and sunshine. I think that was phengophobia.

In any case, he had phobias -- fear of people and fear of the daylight. How else could I explain the two peculiarities in this otherwise perfect individual, my beloved? I felt sorry for him really, but it wouldn't do for me to fight him. I loved him and there was so much more we had to do. So many songs to be played, so many concerts I had to practice for. By the time I gained acceptance at Berklee, just a short walk from Mr. Hoffmann's home, I was touring. I was getting calls to play concerts in other states. I began to play with small orchestras. I competed in some of the top competitions in the country -- and I did well. I owed much of my success to Mr. Hoffmann.

Of course, this brings up yet another peculiarity. However much I wanted to tell the world about Mr. Hoffmann, to brag to my teachers and classmates, I could not. It wasn't only that I couldn't thank him in public at concerts. No, Mr. Hoffmann made me promise not to speak his name. If there was a reason why I had to give out the name of my teacher -- an application for a scholarship or a competition entry or a required biography -- then I could fill in the name, but otherwise he did not want his name in circulation. He guarded his privacy and he would not have people coming to him and taking that privacy away.

And so the questions began, questions that finally have led to write this article. It is draining me of my strength, I know, but until I finish what I have to say, I will cling on to this life. I have more to say.

What else is there? Oh, yes, there is one thing left before I go on to the end. Remember how at first it was difficult for me to do without Mr. Hoffmann's support during my concerts? And that I finally comforted myself by thinking that he suffered from phobias? Well, I had two or three _other_ reasons to become less bothered. First, I was in love with the man, as I've written -- and once again, I hope it doesn't shock my parents, but it's perfect true. Second, I learned that even though my teacher didn't attend my performances, he kept a scrapbook with articles and pictures taken from the newspaper, prints my mother had made doubles of. He _did_ care -- I knew it as soon as I saw it.

The final reason why I grew less bothered was because of something Mr. Hoffmann began to do that made me very happy. I'm sure my parents can well remember the first time this occurred. It was before a concert in Western Massachusetts. I was playing a concert at a small college. The event had been advertised and there was a sizable crowd considering the size of the hall. I was in a stuffy back room sitting at a table with my parents talking when in walked a delivery man with a package. It was a long green box with a lid tied on with a crimson ribbon. I opened the box. Roses. A dozen long-stemmed red roses. I could hardly believe it.

I put the flowers to my nose and drank in the scent. I rubbed the soft petals up against my cheek; they were cool and silky. Inside the box there was, of course, a note from Mr. Hoffmann: "You are the perfect student. Best wishes, Franz." My parents exclaimed that he had outdone himself. But he hadn't. No, outdoing himself was when he decided to send me roses prior to ever concert. It never failed, but continued on all through college, right up through the second to last concert before--

But I jump ahead of myself. I am rushing and it is not good. The longer I write, the longer I can remain alive. Or so I hope. I have been writing this for days, it seems. Summer is coming. All the leaves have come in. The baby birds are learning to fly. The air is beginning to get that hot and sticky feeling that's so awful here because no one has air conditioning. My mother has put a fan in here and it's enough for now but soon... Soon it will be summer. I don't know if I will ever seen the summer.


	6. Turning Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for notes.

The story remains to be told, however. I was talking about the flowers and how Mr. Hoffmann always made sure I had them for every concert. In a way, it was like he was trying to appease me, to make up for the absence of himself.

That was fine with me. I loved him deeply and truly. By the time I was twenty I was beginning to thinking of him more and more as someone who would always be there. In a way, it's not surprising. I had known him 14 years by that time. He was a fixture in my life -- the never-changing handsome man, the man who had been, outside of those three peculiarities I mentioned, perfectly willing to give me his all. To employ a terrible cliche, he was the air I breathed, that essential.

Which leads me to the end, the bit I have been working towards. It is the point where I began to asphyixiate.

I was 21 and finally, after years of working up to it, I had succeeded in one of my goals. I was scheduled to play an early summer concert with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. I had seen the symphony so often, listened to them on the radio as a child and finally I was going to be part of them, a guest artist in my home city for one of those wonderful summer concerts that are always so full, all the seats packed with city visitors and people with ticket specials and people simply enjoying the pleasure of music. I was thrilled and perhaps foolishly, I dreamt that Mr. Hoffmann would be pleased as well.

He wasn't. Or I should say, he was pleased, but despite everything, despite the magnitude of the accomplishment I had made, when I asked him to come, he still said no. The concert was at 8 p.m. on a Friday. What could he possibly be doing, I asked him? There wasn't going to be any information about him on the program, I told him. I always had them leave that out. It had information on my teachers at Berklee, not my private tutor. He would be anonymous. Please, would he please come? After so many years, couldn't he simply come to one concert? No, he said, the timing was wrong.

It was only then that I realized the true extent of my foolishness. The concert was at 8 p.m., I'd told him. Well, yes, of course it was -- it was a standard time to begin an evening concert only since it was summer, it wasn't going to be evening, it would still be light out. And just as Mr. Hoffmann would not schedule our lessons until it was dark, he would not attend an evening concert if it was still light out. Photophobia had such a hold on him.

I felt terrible when I realized this, so terrible that I managed to say something to him. Yes, I spoke up. I asked him why he would only see me at night. Was it because he was afraid of the light? He stared at me and looked absolutely petrified. I wasn't quite prepared for that reaction and I'd never seen my teacher look the way he did then. Obviously I was getting too personal. Normally we talked about music, art, concerts, culture, not psychological quirks and certainly not his psychological quirks.

Finally, though, he managed an answer. It wasn't that he was afraid of the light, he told me, but that he preferred to exist in the dark. The light didn't agree with him. It never had and he avoided it. He was sorry to be so unbending, but that was how it had to be. My box of roses arrived right on time prior to the concert. He loved me, I knew it, but there was something wrong. I tried to look beyond it, but somehow I found it bothering me like it hadn't before. Maybe it was because I was older and growing impatient. Maybe my love was driving me to understand everything about him. But somehow after that, I felt more pain than ever over his absences.

Shortly after the concert with the BSO, I received an unexpected invitation. It came from the New York Philharmonic. There was to be a concert in late October. It was in Carnegie Hall. I had actually played there several times before as part of competitions or recitals, but this was different. I was going to play a piano sonata with the symphony. It was my Carnegie Hall debut. This is all recorded in my musical biography. It was the start of my real career. After that concert I was in demand more than I ever had been. I began to record albums and to travel all over the country.

At the time I received the invitation, however, my spirits were not as bright as they might have been. Instead, there was a weight on my heart. Of all the moments in my life, my dear Mr. Hoffmann would miss this one! How could he do this to me? I had nearly reached the apex. I was playing at Carnegie Hall! I would be through with school. Soon I would be enough and perhaps then, finally, we two could be together as more than student and teacher. Yes, at last we could love each other without the urgency to push my career or the unspoken vow that so long as he was my teacher, we would not touch one another.

Or so it could have been. Instead, I was faced with the certainty that Mr. Hoffmann would not attend. I went to see him at his house the day the symphony called me. I was pulsing with happiness of course, but underneath I felt almost betrayed. In fact, I almost felt like not telling him about the concert. Finally, though, he asked me how I was and when I saw the look in his eyes, the love there, I decided that I would give it another try, the idea of asking him again. I'd done it a hundred times before, why not try again?

I had been invited to play with the New York Philharmonic at Carnegie Hall. It would be my most important solo performance so far, I told him. The concert was scheduled for late October. Another Friday concert, 8 p.m. Almost by rote, I asked him, "Would you be interested in seeing me perform?"

As I had been speaking, Mr. Hoffmann had kept the loving look in his eyes. He was happy for me, I knew it. He was always happy for me. But when he answered my question, I was unprepared. "Yes, Vera, I am quite interested. I will call and order a ticket as soon as possible."


	7. Ignorance Is Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for notes.

I was stunned. Flabbergasted. How could this have happened? Why now? So many questions. I was speechless, my brain caught in a whirlwind. My teacher waited patiently. Finally I felt the happiness bloom in my heart. He loved me. He really, really loved me. He loved me so much he was finally going to do this one thing for me. He really cared. I knew it all along, of course I did, but this was different. He was going to _come see me_!

I must have thanked him a thousand times that night. Any niggling doubts I'd had about my beloved's peculiarities dissippated that instant. He was perfect, wholly perfect, and there was nothing left to do but prepare for the concert. There were other concerts in the intervening months but if he didn't attend those, it didn't bother me. He _would_ come to the important one. At last, at long last, he _would_ come.

The summer of 1985 was pure bliss. Once I had received Mr. Hoffmann's "vow" so to speak -- I'd seen the ticket myself! -- the joy I felt in life increased a hundred fold. I loved my music more than ever. I loved to talk with him more than ever. The world was bright and beautiful and the future was going to be even better. Franz and I -- yes, I did call him Franz by then, we had dropped the "Mr. Hoffmann" long ago actually -- were going to be together. I knew it. He loved me. I _knew_.

The date approached. It was mid-October and I we had worked on my performance for weeks. At that point I went down to New York to do some preparations. I made several trips from Boston to New York. Every time I'd come back to Franz and tell him about New York, my hopes and dreams, and I'd thank him for all he'd done. I wasn't nervous; I was happy.

One day, however, something happened which broke this happy pattern. Two days before the concert, I had been in New York for a day and had returned to Boston around 6 p.m. It was already almost dark so once I got home to my apartment, I called Franz to see if I could visit. He didn't answer the phone. I decided he must have gone out. I called again at 8 p.m. He was still out. Finally I called at 9:30. When he answered the phone, I heard something in his voice I had never heard before.

I had asked him if I could come by and visit him. No, he told me, I couldn't come over. Something had come up. He was very upset, he told me. I could tell that was true, as his voice quavered in a way I'd never heard it. Would it help if he talked about it? No, he told me, absolutely not. He needed to be alone. Something terrible had happened. What was it? Something terrible. I asked him again, actually several times, to tell me. He tried not to answer and he lied to me and I could tell. Finally I got him to answer.

Some friends of his had died. A large group of them. He had just found out. I couldn't understand, he told me. He needed to be alone, to grieve, to remember his friends. I would be better off staying away from him and concentrating on the future, specifically on the concert not two days away. And, yes, he would be attending, he confirmed. No matter what, he would be using his ticket. Depend on it, he told me.

As I hung up the phone, I had no doubt that he would keep his promise. I went to bed and went through the next day, doing all the things I needed to do to prepare. That evening I tried to call Franz but he didn't answer the phone. I decided that I would leave him alone and simply expect him at the concert. I didn't have much personal experience in grieving, but was sensitive enough to appreciate its value.

Finally I left for New York on a morning plane. I arrived and settled into the hotel before going to the hall. As the time of the concert drew near, the sense of anticipation built to a fever pitch, and not only because it was such an important concert for me. Franz was going to _be_ there! I kept opening the side door to check the light. Sundown, twilight, then, finally, darkness. Or least as much darkness as Manhattan could afford. The photophobia problem wouldn't be an issue.

My parents were there. "Where is Mr. Hoffmann?" they asked me. They knew all about his "peculiarity" and when I'd told them he'd be coming, they'd been amazed.

But Mr. Hoffmann wasn't there and worse, neither were my flowers. He had been sending me flowers for years. Wouldn't I be getting them on this night of all nights? It would seem not, my mother told me. My father assured me that Mr. Hoffmann was probably going to deliver them in person after the concert. After all, before he had not been able to attend and so of course he had someone else bring the flowers. Tonight would be different.

My father's words helped me to pull myself together. I steadied myself into the right frame of mind, putting to use all that Franz had ever taught me. I packed away all my doubts and personal fears and concentrated only on the music and what I would need to make it right. The world faded away and I was ready. At the appointed time, I glided out onto the stage into the glare of the bright lights. I bowed and took my seat the piano. As the orchestra began to play, I waited for my entry and I looked out into the crowd. Impossible to find Franz' face in such a crowd, but I knew he was there. And there I was. Everything would be perfect.

It was. From the first note to the last, my playing was on a level it never had been. Despite the slight anxiety I had experienced prior to the concert, it was as if I had ascened to a new plane. The happiness at knowing Franz was there was no doubt a factor. I was so happy. It was so perfect. There was a standing ovation. I was called back four times. Someone from the crowd came forward with a bouquet of roses. It wasn't Franz. The roses weren't from Franz. _Where was Franz?_

The cheers went on but suddenly I was panicking. I scanned through the front section seats. I had seen his ticket with my own eyes. I couldn't remember the seat number, but I knew he'd been close to the front. He wanted to observe me at close range, he'd said. But where was he? I didn't see him. So many suits and pressed shirts and fancy black evening dresses. The piles of hairspray on those tacky 1980s New York socialities. Suddenly it was all hideous, the applause, the people, everything. _Where was FRANZ?_


	8. Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for notes.

I kept on the smiling mask as long as I had to. I accepted the backstage thanks from the musicians, the conductor, the technicians and everyone else. And then I went to the room I had been given and opened the door. There it was. A box of roses.

This time the box was different. It wasn't the usual green, but black. Even the ribbon was black. My parents hadn't made it backstage yet, so as I went into the room, I shut the door and locked it. I needed to open the box alone. I sat down at the table and stared. Franz had been in mourning, this box reminded me. What did that had to do with this night, this absence, this box?

With shaking hands, I untied the ribbon. Why was it so very difficult? I was having trouble seeing; it was the tears in my eyes.

The ribbon came off into my hands and I lifted the lid. Inside lay a dozen roses. 11 of them were dead, dried as if they'd been expired for weeks. One of them was perfect, its petals as red and soft as if it had been cut that very day.

I saw the card. It was black. My hands shaking more than ever, I reached out and set it on the table. I opened the card: 

> _Dearest, sweetest, most beloved Vera,_
> 
> _If you are reading this note, then it is a sign you will never see me again. I am gone, dead as these flowers._
> 
> _I write this note and I send these flowers as a sign of my love and as a message._
> 
> _I was never really alive and soon I fear I will be dead. Many of my kind are being killed and I fear I may be next._
> 
> _Please, remain my perfect student, the woman I have always loved. Never stop playing, never let grief diminish your passion, for you are perfect and have made my life complete. You are the living red rose amongst the withered blossoms._
> 
> _I wish I could spend the rest of my days in your company, but I cannot. I am going to be done away with, I'm sure of it, like so many of my kind. I wish it were not so._
> 
> _With everlasting, limitless love,_  
>  _Franz_

I wept. I wept for minutes, on and on. Time stood still, became meaningless. People came to the door and knocked. My parents called my name. I didn't care. I couldn't come out. It was supposed to be the happiest night of my life. It wasn't, it wasn't, it _WASN'T!!!!!!_

I am dying now, truly dying, and there is nothing the doctors can do. Somehow I feel the Franz must have known this same feeling.

After the shock had washed through me, after I had cried for days, after the body had been scraped off the sidewalk outside his home, which he'd apparently used as a setting to immolate himself, I began to think.

After lawyers came to me telling me Mr. Franz Hoffmann had written a will the night before his death willing me his entire estate, millions of dollars plus real estate -- that house in Beacon Hill! -- and antiques and everything else, except his private papers, which he'd ordered destroyed, after that... I began to ask myself why. _Why? How? What had happened?_

I read the note over and over and finally it became clear. Franz had been sick, dying, and I hadn't even known it. Too wrapped up in myself, my career, my music. He had had an invisible disease, a disease that no one talked about. He had never told me, not until he wrote that note. There it was, in the fine black ink he always wrote in: "Many of my kind are being killed and I fear I may be next." He had died of AIDS. It wasn't a direct admission, that note, but it was too obvious.

Had he loved me all along? Yes, I was sure of that, but perhaps he had had another life, a secret life. Well, of _course_ he had! There was much I hadn't known about him, much he had kept from me. A part of him had always been a mystery and now that mystery had taken him away from me.

He was dead.

In death as in life, I respected his wishes. I did not promote his name. I candidly but politely refused to speak of him. In all these years no one has ever known. But now I am dying. He has been dead for 16 years. I have gathered fame from all corners of the globe while his name remains unknown. And now, as I finish this essay, as I lay out the last of my strength, as I feel my mind giving in to the drugs, I say that I cannot allow my love to remain in the dark forever. World, I offer to you a name, a great name, a great man, my love, my life, Mr. Franz Hoffmann.

We are none of us, any longer, in the dark.

**THE END**


End file.
